


toccare

by acomplicatedprofession



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Banter, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hand & Finger Kink, Massage, Mild Smut, Mutual Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Touching, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Fingering, Woops, bc i'm apparently a repressed victorian maiden, dom!mando (sorta), lmao what even is this y'all i'm so sorry, mando is old and his back hurts, reader is kinda dumb but that's half the fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:33:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acomplicatedprofession/pseuds/acomplicatedprofession
Summary: You pushed away from the console, standing in the cockpit and turning towards where he sat in the pilot seat. Mando didn’t turn his head away from the front viewport but he stiffened slightly at your proximity, his shoulders tense and his hands tight around the ship controls. He was always so… wound up. Some might call it vigilance, but you preferred telling him he had a stick up his ass. Right now, he had a whole forest.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Comments: 37
Kudos: 276





	1. sore

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a gifset I saw on tumblr of his bed. it probably isn't his bed but since when was I ever canon-compliant?? might write a part 2 idk we'll see

“Mando,” you called out to him, “Are you alright?”

A grunt, barely audible from beneath his helmet. You pushed away from the console, standing in the cockpit and turning towards where he sat in the pilot seat. Mando didn’t turn his head away from the front viewport but he stiffened slightly at your proximity, his shoulders tense and his hands tight around the ship controls. He was always so… wound up. Some might call it vigilance, but you preferred telling him he had a stick up his ass. Right now, he had a whole forest.

You reached to rest your hand on the pauldron of his beskar, fingertips only barely grazing steel before a firm grip was locked around your arm. Soft leather pressed against the underside of your wrist, his hold unrelenting and silent. He still hadn’t looked back at you. Stubborn. Quiet and stubborn.

You pulled away - although you knew you were only able to because he let go. Heaving a dramatic sigh, you shook your head and flopped back down into the chair. So the walking tin can didn’t want to talk. Fine. Maker knows he barely spoke anyways. Still, he could at least tell you what was wrong. Not that- not that you cared. About him. No. It’s just that when he was in a bad way, like he’d been for the past few days - he didn’t exactly lend himself to good company. It just made for an unpleasant time, is all. You didn’t care.

——-

Another groan, deep and heavy as the Mandalorian stood up from the pilot’s seat. His movements were slow and strangely stiff, a far cry from his usual posture. You imagined a rusty droid, unoiled and worn from years of use, and the image prompted a laugh to bubble up in your throat before you silenced it with a hand over your mouth. Apparently it wasn’t quick enough, though, because a gravelly _“what?”_ accompanied the slight cock of his helmet.

“Nothing, nothing,” you shook your head, the smile slow to fade from your lips. “It’s just- are you sure you’re not hurt or anything?” Shifting around in your chair to rest your feet on the center console, you narrowed your eyes with a teasing smirk. “Or are you just getting old?”

You knew he really was in a bad way when he didn’t bother to answer, only sighing as he - finally - managed to reach his full height. “I’m going to take a look at the engine,” the Mandalorian said gruffly, stepping towards the main hangar. You hummed in acknowledgement, examining the beds of your nails with an air probably too casual for someone who was sharing oxygen with a known killer. You could hold your own, though. He knew that. Maker, that was half the reason why you were here. The other half had to do with a very small, very strange baby who was now napping in its pod behind you. “Get your feet off my ship.”

You rolled your eyes, not bothering to look back as your hand came up to form a less than lady-like gesture. So much for class and decorum.

——–

You were going to kill him. You were going to rip the beskar off his stupidly toned chest and use it to beat him into the damn ground. He was being such a… such an… an ass!

The Mandalorian had always been terse, you were used to that, but this was something else. He’d nearly driven you to tears the other day and barely apologized, only stalking off to his quarters like a petulant child with nothing other than a _“m’sorry.”_ Yeah, sorry your ass. If he was sorry he would tell you what was going on. It wasn’t the bounties, which were plenty and easily found. It wasn’t the child. It wasn’t you- at least you hoped it wasn’t. So what was it?

It took Mando snipping at you one night for no particular reason, his tone patronizing and clipped, for you to finally confront him. Jamming an angry finger into the metal of his chest plate, you raised your head to meet the slit of his visor. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you, Mando?”

Your voice was harsh but whispered, not wanting to wake the child sleeping in the cockpit. He moved to push your hand away but you shoved it back, fingers splaying against leather and beskar as your gaze stiffened. “No, stop it. What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

“It’s nothing.” He ducked his head down, the chin of his helmet meeting his chest. Scoffing, you stepped back and shifted your weight to one leg, your eyes on him unrelenting. For someone whose job description included lying, he wasn’t very good at it. At least, not with you.

“Obviously it’s something,” you said a little softer. He let you touch him this time, your hands coming up to the dips of his shoulder that lay uncovered by armor. Another groan escaped him, barely audible but slightly pained when you pressed the stiff muscles. You furrowed your brows at the sound. “Are you hurt?”

The Mandalorian shook his head at this, but you remained unconvinced. Realizing something, you resisted the urge to laugh as you pushed your hands down against his shoulders again. It wasn’t very hard and you doubt he could feel much through the thick fabric of his shirt, but it was enough for a deep gasp to be clear through the modulator. He wasn’t injured. He was sore.

You dug your thumbs into the cords of muscle, your tone lighter than it had been in weeks. “You really are getting old, aren’t you?”

“I’m-” he hissed when you flattened your palms, “ _fine._ ”

“Mando…”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hands reaching to pull you away. Fingertips ghosted across your arms, hesitant. You sighed, shaking your head as if to rid the air of perceived ill intentions. “I don’t know if you noticed, but you haven’t exactly been pleasant to work with lately.”

You imagined a smile beneath the helmet when he huffed at your words, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

“Yeah, I know. M’sorry.” Ah, there it was again. This time, though, you could tell he meant it. You let your hands fall to your side.

“Y’know…” Oh, this was a bad idea. You were definitely overstepping. Completely off your rocker. “I could help you.”

“What?” Were you dreaming, or did his voice really just drop an octave?

“I could um-” you swallowed, steeling yourself for the rejection you were almost certain of. “I could help. You. If you wanted me to. I mean I wouldn’t- _kriff_ I don’t know! I don’t know why I-”

“Stop talking.”

You swallowed again, lips parted in shock and your voice wavering slightly. “Okay.”

“Help me how?” He stepped closer in the darkness of the hall, his feet coming near enough that you widened your own to compensate.

“You’ve got to have like, a thousand knots in your back, Mando. I’ve seen your bed.” You laughed to cover the rising flush in your cheeks. “Not much of a bed, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

Funny. He was funny. It was a joke, right? Even after so long, you could barely tell. Hazards of the helmet, you supposed. It made things, at least for you, very, very awkward.

“Look, just-” you screwed your eyes shut, fingers rubbing circles into your temples. “If not for your sake then for mine and the kid’s, alright? If that’s all that’s making you act like an ass, then it’s something that I- that _we_ can fix.”

Armor shook slightly with another deep breath, his sigh bone-deep and echoing slightly through the ship. “Fine.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

———

He was just… standing there. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was nervous. Maybe he was. “You’ll have to take off all your armor, you goof.”

“I know.” The words were tight, stretched over with something you couldn’t place.

“Hey, it’s fine,” you assured him, your voice kinder. “Relax, tin can. I’ve seen a lot worse.” You winked when he reached to undo his pauldron. “Need some help?”

Sighing, the Mandalorian sat on the edge of his bed, although calling it that was a bit generous. It was a pad probably six inches thick laid on a slab of metal. No wonder he was in such a foul mood lately. Your own cot, shoved in a too-small storage closet with an old cape ( _his_ old cape, actually) as a blanket, seemed much more appealing. Maybe he was just a masochist or something. Maybe this was some sort of weird Mandalorian penance. Or maybe he just didn’t have anywhere else to sleep.

A cough you drew your mind out of your thoughts and back on the man behind you, his armor now a careful pile on the floor. Shedding anything else was apparently a bridge too far, but it was still the most exposed you’d ever seen him. “It’d probably be easier if you um… laid down. On your stomach.” The Mandalorian nodded slowly, pushing himself up on the bed and letting his head fall. Stifling a laugh at his movements, you stepped closer. Oh. Oh no.

“Mando?” He grunted in acknowledgement, his arms straightening besides him. “I- I won’t really be able to reach standing. Is it okay if I-” you winced at your words, hoping he wouldn’t be able to notice the way your face burned. “Sit? On the bed?”

The Mandalorian sat up slightly, his elbows knocking against metal. “You mean on me?”

You nodded, tongue heavy and dry on the roof of your mouth. “It’s fine, really. If you don’t want me to I can just-”

“You can. If you want to.”

Fuck fuck fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Okay. That was good, right? He trusted you. You trusted him. You could give your co-worker/associate/bounty hunter-you-flirted-with-when-you-got-drunk a back rub without it being weird, right? Right.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You climbed onto the bed, careful not to ram your head into anything. This was the nearest you’ve been since- since never, actually. You can’t remember, in all your years of hunts and missions and times aboard the Crest, ever being this close to him. Every rise of his chest, every jostle of his hips and micro-movement that had never been afforded to you before was on display now, inches away and undeniably human. His shirt had ridden up slightly when you moved to straddle his legs and you could see _skin_ , tan and strong and battle-wearied. Not a tin can, after all.

You’d rested your hands on the Mandalorian’s shoulders for balance, not realizing it until his own curled into themselves, gripping the hems of his shirtsleeves until his knuckles stretched pale. Frowning, you coaxed his palms open until they rested at his sides. There. Much better.

The metal against your knees was cold, uncomfortably so, but he was warm underneath you, solid and impossibly still. You moved to the juncture of his neck, the skin there drawn tight with the weight of armor and expectations, and strings of hurried apologies followed every knead of your hands. He called your name, the sound rumbling through his chest, and you bit your lip.

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing.”

You grew quiet. Exactly why you listened to the Mandalorian so easily you didn’t want to think about. You blamed the water. He was probably slowly poisoning you until you went mad for his own amusement.

Everything was dampened in recycled air and hazy blue light, pulsing something that had always been present but now was coming to a head and growing a face that you refused to look in the eye. Now was not the time. There would never be a time. You would sooner step out of the limits of space itself until you were stretched thin, enveloped and spun dizzy in the quiet horror of a supernova, than admit there could ever be a time.

Catching a swollen cord of muscle along his back, you pushed down with the heel of your palm and something _big_ shot out to grip at the side of your thigh, its touch unrelenting and so sudden that a gasp was caught in the back of your throat. It was his hand. It was just his hand. So why the fuck could it cover half your leg and then some? Why the fuck was he pressing enough to probably leave bruises?

His hand retracted as quickly as it came, accompanied only with a low noise you could’ve sworn was a whimper. You didn’t want to admit to yourself that you were disappointed, only returning your attention to the task at hand. Maybe you should treat this as a mission. Keep yourself sane and from doing something irredeemably stupid. Great, yeah. Mission to get the knots out of Mando’s back so he would stop being a prick. An awesome game plan, really. Infallible.

Squeezing slightly at the flesh between his shoulder blades, you let your fingernails scrape against the bare skin of his neck until the fabric of his collar gaped. The smallest hint of curls peeked through the underside of the helmet. Brown. Huh. You thought they’d be darker.

Every drag of your knuckles brought a sound, whether it was a huff of air or a downright moan, but you tried not to think about it. You just blocked everything out, warbling your senses until you felt submerged in imagined water and not-imagined skin and words better left unsaid. You mapped every curve of stiff muscle, down the deep slope of his back and over fabric that wasn’t thick enough to conceal the ridges, the landscapes and jagged reminders of enemy encounters. You found yourself liking them, though. The scars.

You’d pushed the shirt up eventually, whispering _“is this okay?”_ before the Mandalorian nodded quickly, dark cloth gathering around his shoulders and bunching up where it lay against his neck. His skin was hot now, burning and lighting fuses on every frayed nerve on the tips of your fingers until you swore you’d grown numb, drunk on contact and the twilight fog of shared lifetimes. It really had been lifetimes. Since you’d met him. Since you’d touched someone like him. Like this.

You were too caught up in it, lost in your own thoughts and so focused on trying not to cross a line or hurt him that you didn’t notice he’d turned onto his back, his hands coming up rest at the swell of your hips.

He pushed up onto his elbows until your forehead fell against the helmet, the beskar against your skin like ice on a desert morning. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands coming to brace themselves on his covered chest. Everything was slow, like syrup was poured into your head and down your throat until it settled into something biting at the base of your spine, a crawling smoke of ungloved fingers and parted lips. He lifted the hem of your shirt and the edge of his helmet dipped to the curve of your neck. The words were shaky through his modulator, hoarse and dulcet. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” you said softly, reaching to grip at his biceps. “Yeah that’s okay.”


	2. returning the favor

The Mandalorian’s hands came to rest at your sides, large palms engulfing your waist. His thumbs rubbed across your ribcage, burning fever streaks and goosebumps into your skin. “What are you doing?” you whispered.

“Returning the favor.”

This was insane. Did this break his code? Did this violate whatever weird Mandalorian creed rules he swore himself to? No, right? You met the cold stare of his visor, the words drying in your mouth when he spoke again.

“Turn around.”

Apparently, you didn’t move fast enough - or maybe not at all because you honestly don’t remember a damn thing besides the feeling of his hands on your hips - but before you realized what had happened the Mandalorian lifted and turned you around like a damn rag doll until your back met the hard planes of his chest and you heard yourself _whimper_. It was weak and quiet and pitiful and everything you had spent your whole life proving you weren’t but now, here, you didn’t mind all that much. You probably should’ve.

Everything in your head, everything rational and reasonable with even an ounce of common sense, was telling that this was a horrible idea, but you couldn’t bring yourself to listen. He was just… returning the favor. Like friends do. Like really strong, really tall, probably really handsome friends do.

His bed wasn’t really meant for two people, which meant that your knees knocked against the wall as he moved you to sit between his legs, but you barely noticed. The metal bounced sound - ragged breathing and skin and the scrape of shifting fabric - and it was all too much but not enough. He hadn’t even done anything yet and you were already sitting there, silent and pliable and stupid.

You felt him grip at the sides of your legs, unfolding them until they lay sprawled atop his own. It was kind of funny, seeing him like this. No boots. No armor. No gloves. None of the other things that made him impersonal. He wasn’t being very impersonal now, was he? Your bare feet dragged against his pants, pulling them up slightly until they exposed his ankles.

His arms tucked around your waist, pushing your back further into his chest. A small part of you wished he weren’t wearing the helmet so you could see - see if he was clenching his jaw and looking at you the way you knew he did sometimes, but you were grateful for it in the end. You could feign ignorance with its help, at least for now.

“Mando-”

“Don’t. Just- don’t,” he rasped. His hand, big and warm and softer than you expected it to be, slid over your stomach and rested there, fingers dipping just below your waistband. The Mandalorian huffed an amused sound when you whined, struggling to find purchase on the tanned muscle of his forearms. He wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he fucking moving?

You buried your face into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, not wanting any witness to the way your chest splotched red and your face flushed. His fingers came to your chin, pressing the soft skin of your jaw.

“Look at me.”

Easier said than done, really, but you lifted your head slightly at his… his… words? Demand probably a better way of phrasing it, but you didn’t want to admit to yourself just yet that you’d listen. To a _demand._

Cold darkness stared back at you, at odds with the warmth of his body. It made for a strange dichotomy. Metal and man. His creed and… and whatever this was.

You were reminded of the time, years ago, when you’d gotten sick aboard the Crest. It was a three-week stakeout and you spent the better part of it holed up aboard ship, barely conscious. The Mandalorian didn’t seem to mind too much though, still splitting the bounty 50/50 and not saying anything about your illness to Ran when you returned. Why were you remembering that now, of all times? Oh, right. The _fever._ That’s why. It had you burning up for days, barely able to string two words together without your vision spotting black. You felt like that now. Hot. On edge.

It was a languid heat - not yet sharp - but it was there, lighting something quiet and dangerous that had your toes curling slightly. Your pulse quickened, pounding a heavy beat that seemed to grow impossibly louder with every passing second. It felt like your heart was bursting out of your chest, crawling thick and making your breathing shallow. His hand left your jaw, resting heavy atop the hollow of your throat. _Fuck._

“You gonna be good for me?” he asked, the question rumbling through your back and making you squirm. Y _eah, you’d be good for him. You’d be whatever he wanted._

Wait, _what? What the fuck?_ You’d… you’d… _what?_

He was definitely putting something in the water.

The hand laying across your neck squeezed slightly, making you gasp. “Answer my question.”

“Yes- yes- I’ll-” you keened against his hold, your hips stuttering forward. “I’ll be good. For you.” The Mandalorian hummed quietly, seemingly pleased. You couldn’t look at him - not now, not like this. Instead, you fixed your gaze on the ceiling, heavy-lidded and blurry. The metal sheeting glowed slightly, undulating with the strobing lights of the Crest’s essential controls. Everything else had been powered down for the night, leaving your vision compromised and catching soft shadows.

You squirmed when his hand reached lower, beneath the loose fabric of your pants and further down until - _oh shit._

It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. It could’ve been seconds, for all you knew, but you didn’t care. You had never cared about anything so little in your life. The bed beneath you offered little in the way of comfort, so your hands stayed resting on his forearms. They gripped tighter the longer he touched you, one hand splayed across your waist and rubbing the bone of your hip and the other one… the other one… _fuck._

He was doing something, something slow and tight and steady that made everything in you want to seize up, silently bursting like the shattered casings of a bullet. You couldn’t think, could barely even breathe, but the thoughts you did have were incomprehensible. Everything was liquid inside you, boiling the blood in your veins until each drag of his fingertips felt it would send sparks flying against your skin, and you wanted…

“More- fuck, Mando-” you choked out, your eyes fluttering closed as a hand reached up to palm at the flesh of your breast. He was greedy. You were too. “ _Mor_ e.”

He cocked his head, metal stiff against your cheek. “What do you say?” You let out a frustrated whine, rolling your hips forward.

“Please?” you asked softly, trying to guide his hands down. Your voice was small, hesitant. “Please, more, please-”

The lip of his helmet ghosted across your hair, sending a small wave of goosebumps down your arms. He complied with your request, practically crushing you to his chest as his pace quickened. _“Good girl.”_

Stars, what were you doing? Sitting on the lap of one of the most feared bounty hunters in the galaxy, reduced to the base instincts of your stupid, primal consciousness. This was how you died. You were sure of it.

It crept up on you, searing and without warning as his hand never left and never slowed between your thighs. It was sudden- a roar of white noise that drowned out the way your breath caught on the crest of a moan, silent until the falling arc.

Waves of it traveled up, burning and damp and tight until everything snapped like a broken band, leaving you boneless and panting for air. You couldn’t see, couldn’t feel or think of anything besides the way the Mandalorian pressed against you as his palm stilled. You shuddered in his hold, your hands going slack atop his arms as your breathing evened out slightly. What did he say, before?

_Returning the favor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm a dweeb so pls be nice. no pt. 3 soz i can't write anything smuttier than this adsjhdkas have a good day y'all


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